


Chasers

by Book7BrokeMyBrain



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Office (UK)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Hiatus fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:05:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book7BrokeMyBrain/pseuds/Book7BrokeMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim Canterbury is utterly bored with himself until an exciting stranger takes a liking to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hunger Pangs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/389042) by [keelywolfe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe). 



> Inspired by ["'Hunger Pangs' by keelywolfe,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/389042%20) a Sherlock/Cabin Pressure crossover. The only reason I wrote this is because of her terrific, angsty, sexy short fic. Given a choice between reading my ficlet and her story, go read hers.  
> I got really lucky with the title Chasers ["because it's the name of one of the two nightclubs in Slough,"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grL89zgUb3U%20)and expresses the tone of this fic way Hunger Pangs did the other.  
> ["' 'Slough' read by David Brent, with clips of Freeman as Tim, and shots of the sad, sad nightclub and Tim's ill-fitting clothes."](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3x1knZBDEQM)  
> Beta'd by Asnowyowl. Thank you!

Tim tipped back the dregs of his pint and signaled for another. The music in the club was always too loud. Thank God for universal hand signals. Shake your empty glass, get a fresh one.  
He swirled around on his stool and looked across the dance floor. The people were the same. Slough was always the same. He was the same. Had been for ages.  
He ruffled his short hair, greying in patches, no longer cut in the fetching, sandy shag he used to wear when he was a sexy, energetic thirty-something instead of a bored, lonely forty-something. His suits fit him better now than they did back then, too, if only because he'd gained a few.  
He leaned back against the bar, rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed pathetically.  
"Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough..." he recited.  
"Betjeman."  
Tim startled, even in the noise, to hear a deep voice speak next to his ear. He turned to find a tall, blond stranger inspecting him closely, with alien eyes. “Uh, yes! Quite right. Betjeman. How did you know? I mean, I think, by law, the locals have to learn that poem, but no one else knows it.”  
“I read a lot,” said the man, practically squinting as he scrutinized his face. “Who _are_ you?”  
“I... beg your pardon?” Tim took a nervous pull from his glass, but the man still stared. Tim started to sweat. “I'm nobody, mate. Trust me.”  
“Middle management at a--” he scanned Tim's sleeves and trousers, “yes, paper company. Never married, still lives at home. You take night classes, but you've never gotten your degree.”  
“Right.” Tim set his glass testily on the bar and turned back to the man. “Are you from the BBC? Look, I told them I'm never doing another one of those, so you can just _fuck off_.” He wielded a scolding finger at the man. “Never. Again.” At least he got a reaction with that last.  
“I don't watch television. Didn't. Don't. No idea what you're talking about.”  
“Then who-- why-- _how_ \--”  
The man's head whipped around, spotting something across the room-- he was gone in a shot. He ran toward the back of the club. Tim saw another man tear off; he craned his head to watch until the excitement was gone from view and everything was suddenly as it had been.

* * *

Tim slogged to the men's, relieved himself with a grateful groan, and flushed the urinal. He regarded his face in the mirror as he washed his hands. Nowadays, he could give Gordon Ramsay a run for his money in the crag Olympics, and take at least a silver in eye bag. He splashed water on his face and jumped to see the man in the mirror looking over his shoulder, brushing the fringe from his eyes.  
“Arseing hell! You're quite the sidler, aren't you?” The man merely quirked a smile. “Did you get who you were chasing?”  
“No.” He scowled, now. “But I know where to find him.”  
“He owe you money?”  
“Oh, he owes me more than that,” he offered mysteriously.  
“All right. Well, I'll... just be going.” The man blocked his way out. “Excuse me.” He blocked the door fully.  
“How would you like to spend the night with me?”  
“Yeah, look, I'm flattered, and you're dead gorgeous and all, but I'm not actually gay.” The man chuckled darkly at that. “What?”  
“No. I just... get that a lot. That's not what I had in mind, in any case.”  
“Well, you proposition a guy in the men's room of a club and someone _might_ take it the wrong way. I don't even know your name.”  
The man smiled softly and stuck out his hand. “Sigerson. James Sigerson.”  
Tim took it. “Tim. Canterbury. Nice to meet you. Sigerson. Swedish, is it?”  
James looked confused, then glanced at himself in the mirror. “Something like that. Nice to meet you, Tim.”  
They left the loo and headed toward the bar and the front door.  
“I'm working on something tonight,” James said in his ear, “and I could use someone with reasonable intellect to keep me company, let me bounce ideas off him. It could take hours.” James stared him straight in the eyes. “Could be dangerous.”  
Tim's blood thrummed in his ears. “I'm in.” He smiled broadly, tucking his shirt all the way in, hiking up his suit pants, putting his hands on his hips.  
“Do you think you can run in those shoes?” James asked.  
“There might be running?” Tim asked breathlessly.  
James leaned down and smiled wickedly. “There usually is. Come on.” 


End file.
